All you gotta do is follow every last one of these diabolical, devious, extremely well-researched steps:
1. Find an Authorized Lamborghini Dealer
This dealer should be close enough to you so your shitty 1973 AMC Gremlin can make it there without, like, exploding, but not so close that anyone who works there will know you or have legal jurisdiction over crimes you may or may not commit—so, you know, cross the Hazzard County line!
2. Buy a Reliable Stopwatch
I recommend an advanced prototype Timex T7G51002 for extra reliability. It should cost you about $3.99 at Walmart.
3. Formulate an Illegal Poisonous Compound Using Common Household Ingredients [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X][redacted]
Fuck. What is this? All I wanted to do was type [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X][redacted]—SHIT!
All right, guys, I had a feeling this might happen.
Because I’m both a killer assassin and a doctor—I won’t tell you of what, not yet—I know how to make a certain illegal poisonous compound that induces rapid excessive nosebleeds.
It’s critical to my plan, and it’s actually pretty simple to make.
But Nigel the Editor and the suits at the publishing house won’t let me—ME—write down the key ingredient, [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X][redacted]. Some garbage about liability and we’ll all go to jail for five hundred years blah blah blabbity blah blah.
So listen.
Go to the dark web, and look up common household ingredients that cause rapid excessive nosebleeds, all right? You’ll see [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X][redacted] listed right there. You all have it. Trust me.
Once you have the [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X][redacted]—shit, so annoying—just take [Redacted X X X X X X X X X][redacted]—come on, seriously?—and use a mortar and pestle to grind them up into a very fine [Redacted][redacted]—bro, are you kidding?—then mix that with [X X X][redacted] milliliters of [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X][redacted]—DUDE, IT’S [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X][redacted]!! YOU CAN GET IT FROM YOUR LOCAL FUCKING [Redacted X X X X X][redacted]!—and then put [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X][redacted] in [X X X][redacted] small [Redacted X X X X X X][redacted] [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X][redacted].
MOTHERF[X X X]!!!
Whatever. Dark web, nosebleeds. You get it.
4. Makeover Time
Lamborghini dealers are obviously classy, posh dudes who are used to dealing with high-net-worth clientele. So if you wanna drive a Lambo, you gotta look like a guy who drives a Lambo.
Bonus tip: the more you look like a guy who drives a Lambo, the more you’ll feel like a guy who drives a Lambo. In other words, a winner.
a) Take a shower. If I know you, and I think I do, you need one bad.
b) Do all the grooming tips from chapter 4. I mean all of them: Pert Plus, SLICK, BY DOC body spray, mullet, ’stache, the whole deal. Those last two might take a while to grow in. That’s cool, I’ll wait.
c) Get dressed. You wanna dress in a way that shows you’re not only rich enough to buy sweet clothes, you’re so damn rich you don’t have to. I find that a skintight black T-shirt with a solid-gold-plated medallion around my neck generally impresses people. And if it happens to be a warm day, go ahead and put on those cut-off black jean shorts. Nothing cooler than showing off a pair of well-oiled, nicely tanned calves.
d) Get swole. Look, who are we kidding? You’re a chubby slob. That’s not gonna change overnight. But we can at least tone a little, right? I want twenty squats now. NOW! Come on, target those glutes, baby! Target those glutes! Now give me twenty push-ups, fifty crunches, thirty pull-ups—WITH PERFECT FORM—and thirty RDLs, and run five miles for the hell of it. What, you’re complaining? Shit, I do this ten times as my warm-up. Not even my warm-up for working out. My warm-up for having lunch. BUCK UP!I
e) Repeat steps a through c. Because now you’re all sweaty and you stink. We can’t have you go to the Lambo dealer like that.
5. Drive to the Lamborghini Dealer
Park your ’73 AMC Gremlin at least four blocks away so no one can tell it’s your car. Bonus points if you park right under a bird’s nest so your car gets covered in shit, because that’s hilarious.
If the posh, snooty dealer asks you where your ride is, be like, “My chauffeur dropped me off in my slate-black stretch Hummer with flame detailing on the sides.” That’ll shut him up.
6. Browse the Merchandise
The key here is to act like an incredibly successful, hyper-dominant winner at all times. I know, it’s a stretch.
Start by super-casually looking at the floor models. Like you’re barely glancing at them out of the corner of your eye, you’re in the middle of a super-important call on your Motorola flip phone, and you hardly even know why the fuck you’re there.
Every now and then, just happen to notice the sticker price on one of the models’ windows. When you see it, arch an eyebrow really, really subtly, then laugh extra loud and shout, “THAT’S IT!? THAT’S CHEAP AF!”
Make sure you say “AF” and not “as fuck,” because that’s much classier.
Then, right as the posh, arrogant sales dude walks over—you’ll have to fight him off because you look like such a boss in that solid-gold-plated medallion—I want you to say super loud into your flip phone, “Tell Mendoza that if he doesn’t raise the bid by five mil, the deal is off!”
When the sales dude gets to you, hold up a finger in his face like you need a minute. Make sure it’s not your middle finger. Into the phone be like, “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”
Then snap the phone shut, look the posh sales dude dead in the eye, and go, “Sorry, you know how Swiss bankers can be.” Laugh and slap him on the back way too hard.
When he asks what car you’re looking for, say, “I don’t know. What day is it?” Then when he tells you, say, “I knew that.” Then when he looks at you funny, say, “The most expensive one you got.” When he looks at you funny again, be like, “The 2021 Lamborghini Aventador SVJ, black-on-black-on-onyx-coal-death-black, just like I said five minutes ago, you skinny punk.”
And if that doesn’t make the right impression, you may be a lost cause.
7. Slip Him the Mickey
I know, I know. “Slip him the mickey” sounds a little more late-night Cinemax than what it means.
But it’s just an old-timey phrase people used back in the 1600s when they wanted to put a poisonous illegal substance in a Lambo salesman’s drink to induce a massive nosebleed.
Anyway, now that your posh slick salesman knows that you’re a legit, high-net-worth customer who’s totally a winner, he’s gonna ask you if you want something to drink. They’ll have an espresso machine because Lamborghinis are Italian, and Italians love espresso almost as much as envelopes of cash.
So you’re gonna be like, “Yeah, make it a double espresso.”
Now, you and I both know that espressos actually taste like shit. We’re real American men who drink Folgers with Splenda and non-dairy creamer. But that’s not what’s important now. Now we need you to order that espresso, and we absolutely need you to make sure he’s drinking one too.
So say something cool, like “I never drink my double espresso alone. So you better drink one too.” Bonus points if you end with “Capiche?”
While your guy is getting your drinks, position yourself next to a vase full of orchids. Lambo dealers love vases full of orchids because they look expensive. As soon as he gets back, knock over the vase, scream, “YOU STUPID PUNK!” and while he’s desperately cleaning up the mess, take his drink and pour in all of the illegal poisonous compound. Espresso is so disgusting, he won’t notice any difference.
Then when he’s done cleaning, hand him his drink and say, “To fast cars, world domination, and mysterious nosebleeds!” and watch him gulp it down.
8. Start Your Advanced Prototype Timex T7G51002 Timer
Assuming your posh
, snooty Lambo salesman is of average weight and height, it’ll take a little over nineteen minutes for the drug to take effect.
Program your timer for nineteen minutes, then hit start.
9. Kill Time
Nineteen minutes is about seventeen minutes longer than small talk will last, so here are some insightful, totally inconspicuous questions you can ask your posh sales dude to distract him while the illegal poisonous compound works its magic.
a) Just how many shades of black does Lamborghini offer anyway?
b) How’s that nose of yours feeling?
c) Are you a weak clotter?
d) Do you currently take aspirin, Advil, Motrin, Nuprin, or Aleve?
e) Has it been nineteen minutes since you drank that espresso?
10. Secure Your Test Drive
When that timer finally beeps, shout, “FINE! I’LL TAKE A TEST DRIVE.”
Then look over at the posh salesman’s manager and shrug, like “Where did you find this guy?”
The salesman won’t want his manager to think he’s about to blow a deal with such a successful, high-net-worth dude, so he’ll agree to give you the test drive immediately.
Once he does, you’ll have just enough time to give him your license and get through all the BS paperwork before the sales dude’s nostrils start to erupt like a blood volcano.
Driver’s License Distraction Bonus Content
At this stage there’s one other issue that’s almost impossible to avoid: your driver’s license, and the fact that it very clearly states your address.
For me, that’s 1 Rich Guy Street, Command Center Island, The Universe.II
Not a problem at a Lambo dealership.
For you, it’s 86 Dumbass Lane, Shithole, USA.
Definitely a problem at a Lambo dealership.
Also, you probably still own the same Velcro Incredible Hulk wallet you’ve had since middle school. I mean, I think it’s cool—but they might not.
So here’s what you’re gonna do.
Before you leave for the dealership, I want you to get out your Monopoly board game. That’s the one that’s shoved in the bottom of your closet with all the corners taped up, buried beneath Candy Land, Connect 4, Life, and Operation with the funny bone missing.
Take all those pink, orange, and blue Monopoly tens, fifties, and hundreds and stuff them in that Velcro Incredible Hulk wallet. I mean, just cram ’em in there. Pack it so it looks like the Hulk is about to bust out with all that cash, all right?
Then, when the snobby salesman asks for your driver’s license, pull out that wallet, rip open that Velcro, and just barely flash some of those funky bills. Wait till he kinda frowns, then laugh and casually say, “I really gotta start separating my yen from my rubles, you know?”
He’ll be so impressed by what a legit international player you are, he won’t even notice that colossally shitty address of yours. You’re welcome.
11. The Moment of Truth
By now, you and the posh slick sales dude should be walking toward your diamond-black-on-steel-black 2021 Lamborghini Aventador SVJ.
You are on the verge of having an experience of divine religious bliss without equal in your life.
Your heart is pounding like an ancient Druid warrior on a ceremonial drum. Your armpit sweat is gushing like the mighty tributaries of the Amazon. The neurons in your brain are firing like a nine-volt Duracell.
You’re about to reach a whole new level of smoke and thunder and speed and MORE SMOKE!
Your posh slick sales guy, on the other hand, is about to enter a whole new world of bleeding out.
His nasal passages are starting to feel a little crackly. There’s a slight tickle behind his eyeballs, right in a spot he can’t quite scratch unless he wants to pierce his retina. He’s feeling a warm, sticky mess of goopy red fluid build in his sinuses and start to work its way down his nose.
That goopy red fluid, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, is blood.
And the posh sales dude is looking at you, and he’s taking you in. He’s taking in your black ribbed T-shirt and your pure-gold-plated medallion. He’s taking in your normally flabby yet recently toned physique. He’s taking in your mullet and your mustache and your obvious mental imbalance and the fact that you had a bunch of what looked like Monopoly money stuffed in your middle-school wallet.
And he’s thinking, “Can I really trust this absolute tool bag with my precious, irreplaceable, literally million-dollar vehicle?”
And before he can say no fucking way, the dam breaks and an eruption of blood bursts from his sinuses. He’s trying to stop the flow by stuffing a fancy silk handkerchief up his nostrils, followed by deli napkins, gum wrappers, important legal documents, and crumpled paper from the garbage can, because now this is a fucking gusher. He looks at the precious, perfect Lambo and realizes the horror of even one drop of his blood touching that fine black Corinthian-leather interior. He screams, “DEAR GOD NO!” and just before he runs away sobbing and crying, in one world-shifting, timeline-twisting moment of truth—he drops the keys in slow motion. Right into your waiting hand.
And just like that, that Lambo is all yours. For at least five minutes, after which he will call every cop in the state to bust your ass.
So drive it, my man. Get behind that wheel, put the key in that ignition, and drive that baby like you’ve never driven before. Trust me—even while the cops are dragging you away, even while they’re slapping the cuffs on your weak wrists and tossing your flabby, sorry butt behind bars for grand theft auto, you’ll know it was all worth it.
And you’ll never, ever again want to drive anything other than a Lamborghini.
I. Whatever dimension you’re in, talk to your doctor to see if your lazy ass can actually handle real exercise. Because in my dimension, I’m not liable for any of that shit if you have a heart attack.
II. This is not my real address in any dimension. I’m way too smart to give out such confidential information to my thousands of enemies, and I’m way too cool to live on Rich Guy Street. I’d obviously only live on the much fancier Rich Guy Boulevard. Which isn’t, uh, my real address either. So definitely do NOT Google Map that also-fake address if you’re one of my thousands of enemies.
CHAPTER 8
THE SECRET BEHIND WHAT, EXACTLY, I’M A DOCTOR OF
Yeah, that’s right—it’s finally here.
The question Nigel the Editor has been bugging me about ever since we first met at the New York City App Lebeés.
The question everyone all over the world always wants the answer to—I mean seriously, people stop me on the street, in the middle of E3, and even at the top secret Ralphs I do all my grocery shopping at, and they really do ask me this question.
They all want to know—Doc, what, exactly, are you a doctor of?
And look, I’ll admit I’ve been a little cagey about it in the past, all right? I’ll admit that I kinda enjoyed giving you all the runaround.
I’ll tell people, “I don’t know, maybe I’m a doctor of philosophy, learned in the ways of Plato and Aristotle and The Secret, with a top degree from DeVry University. Maybe I’m a doctor of psychology, because I’m always in my opponent’s head. Maybe I’m a doctor of jurisprudence, because I lay down the law and then I break it. Or maybe ‘Doctor’ is just my first name on my birth certificate, designated legally by myself on the day I was born.”
Depending on the person who asks, depending on the mood I’m in, depending on the dimension, I’ll spew out a new answer like a fart in the wind.
Why not? I’m an arrogant dick, and it’s fun to mess with you—so what else is new?
But guess what? I’m not an arrogant dick. I was just kidding. I’m a nice guy, a generous guy.
And that’s why after all these years, I’m finally gonna give you and Nigel the Editor exactly what you want.
That’s right, Nigel the Editor, I’m gonna forget about all your annoying interruptions and your corrections and your idiotic redactions of my illeg
al poisonous substances. I’m EVEN gonna ignore the absolute CRIME you committed, that TRAVESTY OF JUSTICE AND HUMANITY, when you threatened me—ME!—by saying you’d take away my book if I didn’t stop hawking my merch. I’ll even forget that you wear tweed.
Because I’m such a nice, caring, forgiving dude, I’m gonna let all that slide and give you exactly what you want—the secret knowledge of what, exactly, I’m a doctor of.
So here goes.
Here, at long last, is what I, the Two-Time himself, the man, the myth, and the legend, the Back-to-Back 1993–94 Blockbuster Video Game Champion, the greatest gaming superstar of the entire universe—here, finally, FINALLY, is what, exactly, I’m a doctor of…
Oh man…
Shit…
I just felt a rumble in the ol’ tum-tum. A little jelly in the belly, if you know what I mean. A bubbling below deck. A rollin’ in my colon.
What I’m trying to say is, to use a technical anatomical term, I feel a case of explosive, raging, vengeful diarrhea coming on right now.
And it’s coming on in a way that is only a huge unfortunate coincidence and has NOTHING to do with the fact that I was just about to give Nigel the Editor exactly what he’s been so desperately, so pathetically begging me for since the beginning of our acquaintance.
It must’ve been the leftover chicken wonton tacos from App Lebeés I just ate. Or maybe it was the brewpub pretzels with beer cheese dip. Or the double helping of Neighborhood Beef Nachos™.
Or maybe it’s because all that food is over two months old. I don’t know, I’m not an expert.
But whatever it was—fuck. All right all right all right all right. Emergency-time-emergency-time! We got an emergent emergency emerging right now!!
Violence. Speed. Momentum. Page 9